


The Wooing of Merlin

by aeroport_art



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Schmoop, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-18
Updated: 2011-07-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeroport_art/pseuds/aeroport_art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur has the misfortune of crushing on an extremely dense individual. He needs all the help he can get...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wooing of Merlin

**Author's Note:**

> I may or may not have started this fic three years ago. It was basically dead in the water, but then I re-looked at it, found it interesting again, and finished it up. Lo and behold--a silly, borderline crack!fic \o/

**Prologue**

Every Saturday night, the Knights of Camelot have a tradition.

They drink.

On this particular night—muddy and bleak, the moon beleaguered with sodden clouds—Arthur huddles against the pelting rain and stumbles through the castle corridors in darkness.

“Freezing my bollocks off,” he mutters, rounding up to the castle barracks. At the entrance he raps impatiently against the wooden door, only to jump back when it bursts open. Warm, alcohol-saturated air gushes forth like a tide.

“Your Highness!” It’s Sir Cai, a dark-haired knight who’s got a tankard in one fist, the other braced against the door.

“Cai,” Arthur nods. He shoulders his way inside. “Getting started without me, I see.”

“Just testing out the goods. Wouldn’t want our prince to get poisoned right under our noses, would we?”

“Of course not,” Arthur chuckles, heading inside where the rest of the knights gather round a roaring hearth. A chorus of whoops rise up; sloshing pints are pushed into Arthur’s hands.

“Evening, men,” he says cheerily.

A freckle-faced knight cries out, “Glad you could make it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, not with all the mystery being stoked…” Arthur sits down at the head of the group, draping an arm behind the back of his chair before raising an expectant eyebrow at Cai.

For weeks now, Sir Cai had been boasting about a secret that folks would “give their left nuts to know.” A junior attempt at power play, of course, but it’s got Arthur curious nonetheless. And he’s not the only one; the rest of the men are leaning forward in anticipation, pitchers of ale momentarily forgotten in their hands as Cai moves himself into the light.

The flames dance theatrically upon Cai’s eager face as he slowly reaches behind his back to produce a thin, string-bound book. “You’ll all be indebted to me forevermore,” he crows, holding it up like he’s won a tournament. “I guarantee it.”

A nearby knight snorts loudly. “A _book?_ Unless that’s got a lump of gold inside, it’s worth shite.”

“Say what you will, just don’t complain when the rest of us have beautiful, feisty women grovelling at our feet. _Begging_ to be tamed.”

This last bit catches Arthur’s attention. He cocks his head, waiting for the noise to die down before he beckons Cai over, who does so dutifully. No matter the informality of these Saturday night gatherings, Arthur is still the Crown Prince.

“Let me see it,” Arthur says.

Cai presents the book with a duck of his head and Arthur takes it easily.

It is no exaggeration to say that every pair of eyes in the room is fixed upon Arthur’s idle page turning.

After awhile, Arthur braces the cover against his knee and deftly rips one of the pages out. Indignant noises make their way across the room, but he just downs the ale in his cup and casts a pointed look at everyone.

“I think I’m going to make this an early night,” he says, raising the torn piece of paper in salute. “I’ll see you all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on the grounds tomorrow. Especially you, Lucan,” Arthur points to one of the youngest knights, who looks especially morose. “No more tardiness.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Arthur nods, satisfied, then turns to leave. Though it’s still pouring rain outside, it’s with a bounce in his step that Arthur makes the trip back to his chambers.

 

**The Wooing of Merlin**

 

The next day, the sky loses its rainclouds. In its place, the sun throws fistfuls of rays across the whole of Camelot, lighting up the city like a glittering diamond.

Far below, on the more mundane surface of the earth, sunshine slants through the window of Merlin’s bedroom.

“Ugh,” Merlin grunts, throwing his blanket over his head.

Gaius chooses then to bang on the door. “Merlin. _Merlin.”_ Strange, since when has Gaius adopted such a petulant tone of voice?

The door flings open. “ _MER-LIN,”_ the voice repeats, dragging out the syllables until they no longer resemble his name. “Get your lazy, _sodding—”_

An invisible hand grabs at Merlin’s face through the sheets and rudely yanks the fabric down to his chest. In the ensuing shock of blindness, Merlin’s left blinking stupidly up at the maniacal grin of Camelot’s sole heir.

“Arthur…” Merlin groans. “I hate you.”

“Now, is that the way to greet your prince?”

“But you gave me the day off—”

“I did no such thing, you loon. Now get up!”

Merlin makes a high-pitched whine that he will gladly admit to if it means Arthur will leave him alone. A small motion catches the corner of his eye—it’s Gaius, trying to be discrete as he slips out of the room.

“Oy, Gaius, you _coward—“_

“UP.” Arthur plants both hands on the bed and in one dramatic flourish, rips the covers off.

Merlin squeaks.

Arthur stares. It is a most un-princely thing to do, _staring._

“Well…put some breeches on first,” Arthur says lamely. “Then get up. I’ll be, erm. Right outside.”

“Do you _mind?”_

“Right, yeah. Just outside.”

\-----

 

It’s no news to Merlin that Arthur is royal pain in the arse. But still, it’s _beneath_ Arthur to relinquish what he’d given freely himself. His one day off—

“No such _thing,_ Merlin, so stop glaring at me.”

—on his DAY OFF, Arthur prises Merlin from bed, only to drag him outside in the brisk, wet city for Lord-knows-what.

In the courtyard, at the foot of the stairs, there’s a muddy puddle that Arthur hops over. Merlin makes to follow, but Arthur suddenly throws his hand out, stopping Merlin in his tracks. He then proceeds to peel off his jacket and throw it directly into the puddle.

It lands with a sickly _splat,_ and oh, lovely, now there’s mud all over Merlin’s boots.

“I said stop glaring,” Arthur says.

“Let me get this straight—“ Merlin says slowly. “You dragged me out of bed on my day—“

“No such th—“

“My _reserved day._ The day I had _reserved_ to help with Gaius. You broke that reservation for the sole purpose of having me _clean up_ after you.”

Arthur makes a face. “That’s not what I was—“

“You threw your jacket in the mud, right in front of my face!”

“You’re supposed to _step on it,_ you idiot.”

“What, so I can double the time it takes to scrub out the stains?” Merlin huffs loudly and bends over, picking up the spectacularly soiled garment with his forefinger and thumb. “You’re such a tosser.”

Arthur opens his mouth as if to argue, but then appears to change his mind. He shuts up and simply looks at Merlin with a withering expression.

\-----

 

Later that day, as Merlin follows Arthur across the grounds with all the enthusiasm of a prickly cat on a leash, Arthur makes a big declaration about wanting to go hunting.

“It’s past noon already. You’re daft.”

“But more importantly, I’m _royal_ ,” Arthur counters, “which means you can’t say no.”

That’s how they wind up sixteen miles away from Camelot, lost in a dense patch of woods with only a small stream (that apparently flows in circles) to guide them.

“Damn it Merlin, we aren’t lost,” Arthur says, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

“Right, we’ve just been wandering about the woods for hours, purely for our own health,” Merlin grumps. His feet hurt. They’ve been out here _forever._

Arthur whirls around. “That’s how hunting _works._ ” He waves his loaded crossbow in the air for emphasis.

“But why are we still out here? We normally stop before sunset.” Merlin pauses, then adds quickly, “And normally we have a whole hunting party with us so we don’t wander around for ages, totally lost—“

Arthur raises a stern finger, opens his mouth in preparation for some rude words, no doubt, when suddenly his eyes grow huge and he silently moves his finger to his lips. He follows this with jerky tosses of his head, then moves his hand across Merlin’s field of vision and swiftly brings it down, palm-side down. Arthur nods at Merlin knowingly.

“What?” Merlin asks loudly.

Arthur’s face slackens into an expression that clearly reads: _you moron._ He lets the full effect of it sink in, then shoulders past Merlin with his crossbow leading the way.

Merlin turns around, eyes following Arthur, who’s gone stealthy and tense. Further ahead, if Merlin squints a bit, lurks the shadow of a rather large beast.

 _Oh,_ he thinks.

Arthur stops and crouches, resting the shaft of his crossbow against a nearby branch. He takes his time aiming, Merlin trying hard not to make a sound. Arthur lets the bolt fly, straight and true.

The beast gives a terrible cry and paws at the air before tumbling to the earth with a sickening thud.

Arthur gives a victorious shout and bounds over to the felled creature, which turns out to be a small buck. From his belt he draws a small dagger, wielding it as he cautiously approaches.

When it becomes plain that his quarry is incapacitated, Arthur drops to his knees and deftly slits its throat, causing a sickening bloom of red to gush out from its jugular.

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut and tries to keep down the contents of his stomach, while the sounds of Arthur happily eviscerating filter into the air.

At length, something warm and wet drags over the back of his hand and Merlin shudders, opening his eyes. It’s just Arthur, trying to get his attention with a touch of his lightly-bloodied thumb. Arthur, who’s standing _extremely_ close.

“Hey,” Arthur says. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

“What do you want me to say?” Merlin chokes. There is a LOT of blood pouring out of that dead animal. Arthur’s knights usually take care of the larger kills, allowing Merlin to hang in the back and heroically try not to faint.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Arthur replies in a normal voice before raising his voice two octaves higher. _“You’re amazing, Arthur! I’ve never seen a better hunter, Arthur!”_

If that’s supposed to be Merlin’s voice, he’s mildly offended. Arthur continues, “I just felled a deer with _one bolt_. That merits _acknowledgement,_ at the very least.”

“Right,” Merlin feebly says. Did he mention there was a lot of blood? Because there is a lot of blood. “You’re....astonishing. Truly.”

“Oh, forget it,” Arthur grumps. “Pack it up and let’s go.”

“By _myself?”_

“Well, it’s for you,” Arthur says distractedly, “I thought…well, with the way you always stuff your face full of venison at our feasts…I thought you’d want it.”

“But…” Merlin makes the mistake of glancing at the carcass again, whose glassy eyes gleam up at him through the shadows. “Oh, god. It was a _living creature,_ Arthur.”

“Where do you think venison _comes from?”_

“I know where it comes from…it’s just—“

“Never mind,” Arthur sighs. He walks over to his kill and bends down, inspecting it quickly before holding his hand out. “Pack,” he says. Merlin passes it over, then hastily turns around when the dressing knife comes out.

After several minutes of slick sounds and Arthur’s quiet grunts of exertion, Arthur finally calls out, “Stop being such a baby and help me carry this home.”

Merlin obediently toddles over, but he slips on a stray bit of intestine and lands on his arse with an ungainly _oomph._ When he opens his eyes…

“Oh god.” Merlin stares at the steaming heap of viscera before him in abject horror.

“Oh, _god.”_ Arthur rolls his eyes. He sets about tying the carcass up, bringing Merlin’s horse alongside so he can tack the heavy load to her saddle.

“Hey,” Merlin weakly protests. “That’s my horse.”

“Brilliant deduction, Merlin,” Arthur replies, knotting up the last of it before pulling his waterskin out and rinsing his hands.

Merlin tries again. “I was going to ride back to Camelot.”

“No one’s stopping you,” Arthur says evasively. He’s done washing his hands, but keeps toying with the lid of his waterskin. Finally, “We’ll ride back together.”

Merlin casts a look up at Arthur’s chestnut-brown mare, who meets his gaze with a bored expression. The saddle looks awfully small. “Well…all right.”

“All right,” Arthur echoes.

\-----

 

When they’re back within view of Camelot’s lavender-grey spires, Merlin is hit with the sudden realization that he’s clinging to Arthur like a limpet.

 _That won’t do,_ Merlin thinks embarrassedly, leaning back in his seat to disentangle his arms from where they’d snuck around Arthur’s waist, but a swift catch of his hands stops the movement.

It’s Arthur, gloved palm over Merlin’s entwined fingers. “Not yet,” he says quietly. They’d been riding for quite awhile now, which is probably why Arthur sounds short of breath. “We’re not back yet. You might, erm, fall off.”

Though Merlin’s first instinct is to make a sarcastic remark, the slow trod of their long trip has eased him into relaxation. So he murmurs assent and slumps back forward, only the broad plane of Arthur’s tall, straight back to prop him up.

\-----

 

“Oy, Gaius.”

Across the floor of their abode, Gaius measures the contents of a half-empty vial. Court physicians seems to do a lot of measuring. That, or Gaius needs to find more varied tasks to pretend to be busy with.

“Gaius,” Merlin repeats, to no avail. “Gaius. Gaius. Gaius. _Gaius—_

“For God’s sake, Merlin!” Gaius slams the vial onto the table, slopping thick, green liquid onto the surface. “What is it?”

“Tell me what this means.” Merlin unfurls a small bit of parchment, then proceeds to recite:

 _Merlin,_  
O Merlin,  
Your head is quite dense.  
You’re rubbish at work,  
And you rarely make sense,  
But your lopsided face shines like it’s sterlin’ (silver).

Merlin wrinkles his nose. First off, his face is not lopsided. Secondly—the poem is crap.

“So what do you think?” he asks, pinching the insulting words back into a little tube.

“That’s from the Sire, I take it?”

“Yes. He stuck it into my nostril last night before I left his room,” Merlin sighs. “He’s telling me something rude, isn’t he? I just can’t figure what.”

Gaius stares at him for long enough that Merlin starts to wonder if he’s got something on his face, but then Gaius heaves a long-suffering sigh and picks up his vial of goop again, saying, “He’s telling you _something,_ at least.”

“I knew it!” Merlin whirls around and flops into one of the empty seats languishing around the table they eat at. “I don’t know why he’s being such a bully this week. I _knew_ hanging out with the knights was going to turn him into a right wanker again. Except for Lancelot, they’re just a big lot of knuckle-dragging cretins.” Merlin huffily throws the scrap of paper towards an empty jug on the table.

It misses, rolls off the tabletop, then takes a swan-dive to the floor.

Merlin grumbles, half to himself, “I hate his royal behind.”

“Best keep that to yourself, Merlin, as you are in it’s employ. Now get to the kitchens—you were supposed to wake Arthur twenty minutes ago.”

Merlin grimaces. “You’re no better than his Royal Pratness!” He dashes out of the room before an airborne spoon can hit the back of his head.

\-----

 

If Merlin thought Arthur was being a prat before, dragging him to gruesome hunts and writing him rude missives, the torture is nothing compared to when Arthur’s trying to be nice.

At least, that’s what Merlin suspects he is doing.

“I don’t. Want. To _talk_ about it,” Merlin hisses between clenched teeth as he fastens the steel gorget across Arthur’s chest.

“What you _want_ is irrelevant, Merlin!”

Earlier that day:

Merlin had woken up Prince Prat at seven o’clock, sharp.

Arthur’s periwinkle eyes blinked open. He sat up and raised his fists, the sheer, linen sleeves of his tunic slipping down finely-hair arms as he stretched, long and lazy like a cat.

“Merlin,” he’d acknowledged, with sleep-rough voice. “Is that bacon for breakfast? I smell something delicious.”

Merlin sniffed the air, with its notes of sweet, greasy salt. An unbidden memory sifted up from his mind—

_his father, cooking bacon for him and Arthur. They were outdoors, en route back to Camelot—_

When was that, roughly a year ago? No…Merlin cocked his head, counting. It was one year ago _exactly_.

Which made today the anniversary of Balinor’s death. Balinor had died protecting Merlin, the son he only got to know for twenty-four hours before getting cut down, like a tree.

Merlin felt his lower lip began to quibble. He whirled around and strode over to the table, busying himself with Arthur’s breakfast, but the smell of bacon proved too much and Merlin quickly devolved into tears. When Arthur had stood up and tried to comfort him in his own way (“Horse’s arse, Merlin. Has a month passed already since your last maidenly occurrence?”), Merlin ran out of the chambers.

He isn’t proud of the spectacle. In fact, hours later, Merlin had hoped Arthur would forget it ever happened. Arthur can be awfully slow, after all.

Not today though, apparently. As soon as Merlin turned up after lunch to prepare him for the day’s training, Arthur has relentlessly pressed the topic of Merlin’s small breakdown.

“I am a great listener,” Arthur insists, getting in his face as Merlin adjusts the gorget over Arthur’s chest. When Merlin refuses to meet his eye, Arthur puffs a gust of air into his face, which finally makes Merlin snap into a glare. Arthur holds his gaze and asks, “You’re sore about your father, aren’t you?”

The accuracy of his assumption startles Merlin. “How do you—I mean, I guess so,” he says dumbly. “You know about my father?”

Arthur’s eyes soften. “Balinor was a good man. We should hold a small vigil for him tonight, perhaps at sundown. Just us and a few of the knights, Gwen and Gaius too.”

Merlin blinks. Sometimes, this idiot of a man still has the ability to stupefy Merlin with his flashes of depth.

Arthur then, of course, takes that moment to arch his eyebrow into an arrogant smirk. “You see, Merlin? You should learn to trust me. Not only am I a skilled and supremely attractive prince, I possess great wisdom as well.”

Merlin rolls his eyes and yanks the leather strap still in his hand, inwardly smiling at the way Arthur’s breath escapes him in a sharp _whuff_ as the gorget is fixed too tightly.

\-----

 

Tender ribs notwithstanding, Arthur still arranges a small vigil in the castle courtyard, held in Balinor’s honour.

Gwen circles the group of six or seven individuals, lighting candles with elegance. Merlin is prodded into saying a word, in which all he can manage is a strangled, “I wish I knew him longer.”

The sun sets.

Merlin holds back tears, grateful for the cover of dark as candlelight swims in his vision.

Beside him, Gwen makes soft, clucking noises and on the other side, Arthur stands stiffly, like he doesn’t know how to act.

It’s all right, though. It’s enough that he’s there.

\-----

 

Merlin has trouble sleeping that night. He is in Arthur’s chambers, low to the ground on a pallet beside Arthur’s bed, tossing and turning.

It isn’t until Arthur shifts upright on the mattress and reaches over to touch the back of Merlin’s neck, gentle and ghost-like, that Merlin feels his body finally relax, grow drowsy, like Arthur holds a spell at his fingertips.

The last thing Merlin sees before his eyes slip shut is the tall bedroom window, full of stars.

Arthur’s hand is still there when he falls asleep.

\-----

 

It’s breakfast time. Merlin re-enters Arthur’s chambers, chirping loudly, “Rise and shine—“

He ducks a pillow, which is habit by now, but the movement unbalances the tray in Merlin’s hands. The water jug slides wildly to the edge. He tries to right it—but then the jug teeters in the other direction. Merlin follows it with a sway, toddling over to the table…

 _“Merlin,”_ Arthur bellows, like he’s been trying to get Merlin’s attention for awhile. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

“No,” Merlin shrugs, finally placing the jug onto the table. He hears a distinct crunch of paper as Arthur shoves something under his remaining pillow—wonders about it briefly before getting distracted by the way Arthur licks his dry lips.

“I _said,”_ Arthur grouses. “You look lovely this morning. You ears aren’t even sticking out that much.”

Merlin blinks.

Arthur sighs, sounding put-upon. “Stop gaping at me like a dim-witted, slack-jawed _idiot.”_

“You just said I…looked lovely. Are you feeling all right?”

Arthur sneers at him in that insufferable way he does when he’s embarrassed about something. “Forget it, I must’ve been dreaming. Clearly, that wasn’t a coherent thought.”

Merlin feels one side of his mouth lift into a goofy smile. “I don’t know, sire. Sounded pretty coherent to me.”

This time, Arthur flings a nearby helm at him which, _ow._

\-----

 

The day is long and hard, as Arthur has one of his endless tourneys that weekend and Merlin, therefore, has endless amounts of armour-polishing to do. He doesn’t even get to do it by magic because he’s been instructed to perform the task on the grounds, where everyone is bustling about in their own preparations.

There is so much to be done before the tournament that, when Merlin isn’t in one of the tents outside, he’s bounced between the kitchens and stables and elsewhere in the village, running errands like a skipped pebble glancing from place to place.

When Merlin is finally allowed rest that evening, long after the sun’s gone down, he flops back to Gaius’ first to wash his face and hopefully find a sympathetic ear to bend before having to return to Arthur’s chambers.

“Gaius,” Merlin whines pitifully. “Gaius, are you home?”

The white-haired physician emerges from behind a tall stack of tomes, holding a particularly thick one open in his palm. “I’m right here. Long day, I take it?”

Merlin collapses into the nearest chair. “Gaius. I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

“Pity,” Gaius says, not sounding regretful at all. Merlin prises one eye open to glare at him.

After a suitably long look that only makes Gaius chuckle, Merlin notices something on the table.

“What’s this?” he asks, shifting up in his seat. It’s a little wooden carving in the shape of a winged beast.

“Oh, that small token? The prince stopped by this afternoon, dropped it off for you. He said he’d been meaning to bring it by for months, just couldn’t find the time to search for it.”

Merlin picks up the small, hand-carved statue.

It was made for him by Balinor. It’s the first and last thing—besides the power to command dragons—that Merlin would inherit from his father. After the tussle in the woods that led to Balinor’s death, Merlin thought it’d been left behind.

Merlin closes his fist over the crude wood, and it feels warm in his hand. “I have to go,” he says decisively.

Before Gaius can bid him goodnight, Merlin shoves back his chair and leaps to his feet.

He runs all the way back to Arthur’s chambers, down the long colonnades, flying past the odd servant or two who jump back, startled at Merlin’s commotion so late at night.

When he’s finally climbed the stairs and in front of Arthur’s large, double doors, he’s out of breath and fairly wild-eyed, his heart full with the strangest, lightest sense of gratitude.

Without knocking, Merlin pushes his way inside.

\-----

 

He sees Arthur scramble to his feet, knocking the furs off his chair in his haste to stand up and shove something behind his back. His blue eyes are huge and tense, like he’s waiting for a confrontation.

Merlin, for his part, has little interest in why Arthur looks so guilty. He has nothing but warmth for him right now and stomps forward, crowding Arthur against the foot of his bed.

He holds up his father’s wooden dragon.

“This is from you,” Merlin states.

A hint of Arthur’s usual prattishness flares up as he replies sarcastically, “Really? I had no idea, even though I was the one who gave it to you.”

He turns instantly cagey again, though, when Merlin lowers his eyes and toys with the statue in his hands.

“Balinor carved it for me, the day he died,” Merlin says bashfully, peering up at Arthur through his fringe. “Did you know this?”

Arthur breathes out noisily. “I gathered as much,” he says, flushing slightly.

“Thank you,” Merlin says, letting loose a smile that threatens to take over his entire face. He doesn’t care how daft he looks right now; Arthur gave him back a piece of history Merlin thought he’d lost forever, and that means a lot.

He spreads his arms to give Arthur a hug despite how the prince abhors such displays, but when Arthur jerks back and falls arse-first onto his bed with a small bounce, Merlin hides a frown. He isn’t _that_ revolting, is he?

“God, never mind,” Merlin jokes, hiding his disappointment with a manful shove at Arthur’s shoulder.

It wasn’t even that hard a shove, but something rolls out from Arthur’s hand—a crumpled-up wad of paper.

Without thinking, Merlin makes a swipe for it. Arthur does too, but Merlin pushes the air with a bit of magic so that it bends around Arthur’s outstretched fingers. The paper ball subtly leaps into Merlin’s palm.

“Give it back!”

“What are you, eight years old?” Merlin teases, holding up the paper as he spreads the sheet back open. “And I’m not going to give it back, so try and make me.”

“I _order_ you,” Arthur tries, a little desperately. “So help me God, I will sack your scrawny, useless arse if you don’t return what’s mine—“

Merlin hums a little as he dances back from Arthur’s half-hearted grab, flattening the paper against the flat of his thigh as he perches on the edge of Arthur’s table.

It looks like something torn out of a book, one edge jagged with uneven rips.

There isn’t a lot scribed on it, just some short lines, like a list:

  

 _**I. Be chivalrous**   
__You may not be a knight, but women will always wish you were. Pull out her chair or throw down your cape at a mud puddle for her to step on, so on and so forth._  
  
_**II. Demonstrate a unique skill or talent**   
__Show her you have something to offer (other than what is underneath your clothes)._  
  
_**III. Be romantic**   
__Serenade her or compose a poem—anything that will appeal to her sentimentality._  
  
_**IV. Listen to her**   
__Or at least give the pretence that you are._  
  
_**V. Break the touch barrier**   
__A simple brush of the hand or elbow will let her know you’re interested. Try not to go overboard, however, as this is a very common mistake._  
  
_**VI. Compliment her**   
__Has she done something with her hair, or is that a new robe? She’ll be glad to know you’re paying attention._  
  
_**VII. Give her a gift**   
__All women love presents._  
  
_**VIII. Start a rumour about the two of you**   
__It will put the idea into her mind._  
  
_**IX. Ask her out on a date**   
__If she accepts, you’re golden._  
  
_**X. If all else fails, don’t take no for an answer**   
__Women like to be told what they want._  
   
   
   
Merlin looks up from the list.

“I don’t understand,” he says.

“Well, that’s a surprise,” Arthur sneers, but Merlin sees right through it. Arthur is bloody _mortified;_ his face is on fire and his fingers are tight around his biceps, like he’s defending himself.

“No, really,” Merlin says, crossing the space between the table and bed with a few steps before sitting down on the mattress, next to Arthur.

In response, Arthur flops back and hits the bedspread with his arms flung open. His petulant voice floats up. “If I’ve ever hated your sheer, complete inability to comprehend simple matters, Merlin—“

“Don’t take it out on me,” Merlin argues. “I just don’t understand. What is this, like. A guide to wooing girls?”

Arthur is silent.

Merlin frowns, thinking hard. “Who are you trying to woo? I thought the whole thing with Gwen blew over.”

“I have _no idea_ why I find you even _remotely_ likeable, Merlin.”

Merlin grins inadvertently. “You find me likeable?”

Arthur’s head comes up from the mattress. He’s glaring, eyes feline with annoyance.

It’s kind of alluring.

And that’s when it clicks.

Merlin rushes back to re-read the list, poring over each statement and comparing it with the long, strange week he’s had.

_Throw down your cape at a mud puddle. Compliment her. Give her a gift._

Merlin touches the outside of his pocket, where his father’s carved dragon is nestled inside. If he thought his heart was full, earlier, it’s incomparable to the way Merlin feels now.

“Arthur,” he says, voice hushed. “Didn’t you know?”

Arthur props himself up onto his elbows, looking wary. “Know what?”

Merlin lets the crinkled paper flutter to the ground, then kneels his way onto the bed. He swings one leg over Arthur’s body and eases himself down, letting the full length of his body weigh on top of Arthur’s wider frame.

He can feel Arthur holding his breath, still as stone beneath him.

“I’m not a woman,” Merlin smirks. “I don’t need all those things.”

“But you’re so thick-headed,” Arthur eventually says, and Merlin doesn’t even have it in him to be offended. “You didn’t notice anything I did. So I thought, maybe you were just a total girl and I had to, erm.”

“You should’ve just told me.”

Arthur licks his lips. “I didn’t think you…cared for me in that way.”

Merlin gives one last, secret smile, then leans in to say, “Now who’s thick-headed?”

He muffles Arthur’s retort with a press of his lips.

\-----

 

**Epilogue**

The next morning, Merlin wakes up with a tickle in his nose. He blearily opens his eyes, only to discover it’s Arthur’s arm hairs, smushed up against his face.

Merlin sneezes.

Arthur jolts awake, elbowing Merlin in the face.

“Ow!” Merlin yelps, bolting upright to clutch his nose. “Oh my God, you brute.”

“Why are you in my bed?”

“Are you joking?” Merlin asks, feeling the bridge of his nose to make sure nothing’s broken or bleeding. “Wait. Do you remember last night?”

There’s a pregnant pause wherein Arthur looks around the room, as if the evidence will be on the walls. It’s not. But then Arthur’s cheeks bloom pink and it’s kind of obvious he remembers anyway.

“That was real?” Arthur asks, kind of helplessly.

“Yes. Even the part where you fell asleep before it was my turn,” Merlin complains.

Arthur shoots him a wide grin. His crooked teeth shine brightly in the morning’s sunlight. It makes Merlin stare and feel really, really lucky.

“Whatever, _Merlin._ You’re my servant. It’s your duty to serve me.”

Merlin shoves Arthur out of the bed, and it isn’t with a hidden smile behind his lips. It’s _not,_ because even if Arthur is kind of the best part of Merlin’s life, he’s still a complete wanker.


End file.
